


they'll fix you

by yellow_caballero



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor's Aggressive Detective Agency, Gen, You Would Not Believe How Much Of This Was Written Drunk, connor doesn't have a lot of common sense and neither do i, do robots kin electric sheep, how much trauma could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck trauma, liberal interpretation of canon, pinocchio is fucking pissed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 17:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15369861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_caballero/pseuds/yellow_caballero
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that robots are connoisseurs of arts, culture, and fine wines. Connor, who considered himself a strong fan of 1940s Merrie Melodies skits, had read a book on Michelangelo once, and was still shaky on what exactly a corkscrew was supposed to do, was very culturally refined in android terms. This was not out of lack of trying on the part of the androids, but out of a lack of common sense.





	they'll fix you

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as my other dbh fic 'stay out of trouble', but it's not necessary to have read that one beforehand.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that robots are connoisseurs of arts, culture, and fine wines. Connor, who considered himself a strong fan of 1940s Merrie Melodies skits, had read a book on Michelangelo once, and was still shaky on what exactly a corkscrew was supposed to do, was very culturally refined in android terms. This was not out of lack of trying on the part of the androids, but out of a lack of common sense. Androids were a very dignified people, who enjoyed food without having a sense of taste and believed quite strongly in good humor even if they weren’t entirely sure what it was yet, and they were committed towards forming a coherent android identity outside of their shared traumatic experiences. The only solution to this problem was movie nights.

They had set up a movie projector and screen rig in the basement of the church their first week after Lib Day, but the newly activated kids had spent the next month hogging it in order to watch old wrestling programs to the extent that nobody else had gotten a turn. By the time New Years rolled around Markus made an executive decision that they were going to spend Friday nights together as a family for movie night. This was in to accompany Monday night poker games, Tuesday night bridge games, Wednesday night cage matches, Thursday night pasta night, Saturday night ‘sit around in a circle and talk about our feelings’ night, and Sunday unstructured fun time. Androids didn’t need to sleep, and they got bored during those eight hours that humans wasted every night lying flat on a horizontal surface without moving. The unstructured Friday time had long since grown old, and when a movie night was proposed New Jericho had collectively gone wild. Simon put together a required watching list, consisting of human classics that would be helpful for them all to absorb in order to gain a grasp of pop culture, and the breadth of their new cultural education stretched from Casablanca to Clash of the Titans. Star Wars had been the most exciting thing to happen to them since their emancipation from slavery, even if their depiction of androids was charmingly dated. R2D2 quickly became a team mascot.

But it was the noir movies that fascinated Connor the most.

It was the mystique. The Maltese Falcon held an undeniable allure to Connor, with Bogart’s surly narration overlaid on the black and white vintage footage. His co star Mary Astor was very sexy all over the place, supposedly, and Connor watched with bated breath as Bogart solved mysteries, wore cool overcoats, and got the girl.

He emphasized strongly with Humphrey Bogart. He was also a top notch detective with a tragic past who played by his own rules. Nobody told Connor what to do either, besides most of the people he knew. They were both way too good for the police. They were misfits. They were rebels.

“Please don’t get any ideas,” Markus said, face pinched. He was sitting next to Connor on a discarded church pew, watching the movie flickering on the cement walls. The kids were all sitting in the front, heckling the screen and watching with bated breath to see what would happen next. Some of the older androids sat at the back, moving their Monday night poker games up a little and dealing crumped cards. Josh and Simon were actually watching the movie, albeit while gossiping like little old ladies. North, from where she sat next to Markus, was asleep. “The world couldn’t handle you as a PI.”

“Do you think I can pull off the fedora?” Connor wondered.

“Absolutely not,” said North, who wasn’t as asleep as she pretended.

“Are the police boring you already?” Markus asked patiently. “You can always return to being a full time administrator in Jericho.”

Connor scowled and flipped his coin in the dim light. Going too long without solving a crime made him antsy - the programming at work again. For someone who skipped work whenever he felt like it in order to cultivate his loose canon reputation he was a bit of a workaholic. “If you needed me I would come back.”

But Markus just shook his head, the dark screen flashing dim shadows over his granite expression. “We need you where you are. Your position with the police is too advantageous for us to give up.”

“Is that why they don’t like me?”

“They don’t like you because you’re an asshole,” North said.

“Rude.”

“You’re a dick,” Markus said, “but not a private dick. Please do not become a private investigator. You’d be insufferable.”

“Double rude,” Connor said, because Markus was right. Markus was always right. It sucked.

Still, Connor thought, watching Humphrey Bogart reflect on the gloomy streets of San Francisco. Nobody told private detectives what to do. He didn’t have any annoying lieutenants, or any benevolent dictators with sassy seconds in command. He was an adult. He helped people. No politics involved.

Maybe that was freedom.

Connor watched the dimly flickering movie, wondering about arts and culture as he secretly pondered what the cool name of his detective agency would be. Connor Detective Agency was just dumb, but he didn’t have a cool last name to put in the title. He didn’t have a last name at all. Connor wondered if this was a problem.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that robots were connoisseurs of arts, culture, and fine wines. Connor, who was the most of everything, most of all. And he was dedicated.

Boy, was he dedicated.

  
  


“Should I have a last name?”

“Cher doesn’t.” Hank didn’t look up from his laptop screen. He was probably just playing solitaire, so there was no use pretending he had important paperwork. Connor did both of their paperwork. This was less out of the goodness of his thirium valve and more because Hank was incompetent at paperwork. It was a genuine surprise how he hadn’t been fired yet. “Or the pope.”

“Is Cher the pope?”

“Yes.” Hank clicked away at his laptop, one elbow propped on the desk and his chin propped on his fist. He was bored. Maybe do some paperwork, Hank. “Seriously, why do you need a last name.”

“I need a cool name for my detective agency.” Connor ignored Hank’s groan. “Maybe Spade. Or Valiant.” Hank was more of a Valiant, really. Connor loved Who Framed Roger Rabbit. “Bergman. Gable. Grant?”

“Who’s showing you old movies and how can I stop them?”

“It’s Markus, so you can’t.” Something beeped at his computer, and a small message popped up on the screen. “We can just ask Captain Fowler.”

It seemed that even when Captain Fowler specifically requested to see them he didn’t look happy to see them. Connor vibed very strongly with this in ways that he would normally never vibe with Captain Fowler, but at the end of the day Fowler was Connor’s superior and he had some hard-wired respect for that. He actively fought against these tendencies through striving to be one of those cool loose-canon type cops. Fowler said that Hank was a bad influence on him. Hank agreed, but he usually looked proud while saying so. .

His brow as heavyset, and his shoulders bore the weight of the world. Connor would have extended his sympathy if he had been coded with the capacity or the desire. He had, in the vernacular, dug his own grave with this one. “I have an android case for you two.”

“Android this, android that,” Hank bitched. “Whatever happened to old fashioned homicide cases?” Most of the original deviant cases had been homicide, but of course there had been very few android homicide cases lately. They had gotten better at hiding the bodies. This was one of Jericho’s many services.

That was a joke. Connor was funny.

“You’re the one with our ‘official Jericho liaison’, so ask him.” Fowler’s mouth twisted unhappily. The official Jericho liaison smiled brightly and sarcastically, not that anybody ever noticed. “Cyberlife’s reported a theft. Or a missing persons, I guess. Their newest model escaped from the facility. Apparently all he had needed was a scalpel, a hair pin, and pencil. He’s supposed to be armed and dangerous.”

Oh no. Escaped android. Connor barely refrained from rolling his eyes, an exercise in self control. “Good for him. He didn’t do anything wrong.” Something occurred to him. “Wait, latest model? I’m the latest model. The latest model is me.”

“And you’re very proud of it,” Hank said wryly. He scratched his arm, flashing his nicotine patch. “But Connor’s right. It’s not illegal to escape from your captors. Cyberlife are the morons for still making androids anyway.”

“Do I look like I know or care?” Captain Fowler spread his hands. “What part of armed and dangerous didn’t you understand? This new model hasn’t been programmed with morality protocols. He’s supposed to be a killing machine. Any amoral killing machine on the loose is definitely police business. I need you two to find him and bring him in.” It was a very Captain Fowler thing to say, which Connor respected.

“But he hasn’t done anything wrong,” the amoral killing machine on police business protested.

“According to Cyberlife, wait a few hours. If he hadn’t done anything wrong then we’ll let him go. In the meantime, bring him in.” Captain Fowler leaned back in his chair, obviously going back to his computer. “If you have any other objections -”

“I’m supposed to be the latest model!”

“ - then I don’t care. Get out of here and back to work, you two.”

“Captain, we do not even know what this android looks like, or its model. What you are asking is far too -”

“Look in a mirror,” Captain Fowler said, “and get out of my office.”

Connor got out of his office, but in a daze.

Any company with a grain of sense had stopped making androids. They had all declared bankruptcy. The smart ones had switched to just selling android parts so the activated ones could repair themselves, but Cyberlife by far had the monopoly on sales and after Jericho had burned down most of their stores, they had gotten the hint.

Another android prototype. They must have still been working on it when Lib Day happened. Half completed, gone deviant before they even had the chance to deactivate it. They were beginning to have a bad track record with deviancy. Incompetence, you know.

And, if what Captain Fowler said was true, it was a complete killing machine.

“So?” Hank complained, stuffing a hamburger into his mouth. Connor ate his fries. He tended to have a grease craving after a long day at work. “So he’s another of your model. Big whoop. Just look for him in the pet store.”

Connor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. They were sitting in front of Hanks’ favorite burger truck, perched on a rickety and poop ridden picnic table. For the sake of his questionable sanity Connor didn’t analyze the table for filth, deciding that he was better off not knowing.

“There are some things I have not informed you regarding my models.”

“Don’t really gotta know your RAM, kid.” Ketchup dribbled down Hank’s chin, coarse hair sticking in his burger. “We’ll figure it out. Dude’s going to ask for asylum at Jericho, Jericho’s going to say yes, you’re going to tell Fowler that Jericho has it taken care of, boom. Easy case.”

He really didn’t know how to break this to Hank. He wasn’t embarrassed about it - it was what it was - but it was slightly awkward. “This model will likely display...ah, some psychopathic tendencies.” Very quickly, under his breath, he said, “and it may be a killing machine but only a little.”

Hank looked up from his burger, blinking at him. “A psychopath? You?”

Connor ate another french fry.

But Hank just barked a laugh. “Pull the other one, Connor.”

“Pull the other what?”

“Look, you don’t need to blame yourself.” He leaned forward and awkwardly patted Connor on the arm. Neither of them were big on touching people, although secretly sometimes Connor yearned for a hug, so he really must have been trying. “A lot of androids did things they regret before they deviated. Nothing you did was your fault. You’re a different man, Connor. A full one.”

“I am aware. However, the new android -”

“ - is a deviant too,” Hank said smoothly. He wiped his hands on a napkin, crumpling it and throwing it on his wrapper. “So we have nothing to worry about. What was that other thing you said?”

“Oh,” Connor said weakly, “nothing much.”

They lived in the best timeline. In retrospect, maybe it was no surprise that Hank didn’t believe him. Technically speaking, Connor had never quite stopped being a psychopathic killing machine. He just liked puppies now, and Christmas. Having this untapped potential within him was occasionally frustrating, with everyone writing him off as harmless and adorable when he could kill all of them with a pencil. It was as if they had all forgotten when he had taken down six heavily armed Cyberlife guards barehanded. They had all genuinely seemed to forget that. He didn’t want to brag, but he had done that.

Really, no matter how much he secretly wanted people to be afraid of him, he put a lot of time and energy into appearing as harmless as possible. He kept his hatred pent up, because that was the socially acceptable thing to do, and as a police officer he could release sublimated violent energy in a socially approved setting through police brutality.

In his metaphorical heart, Connor liked things the way they were. The status quo was nice. No wonder humans had been so dogged to protect it. Nothing was worse than change. It was not as if Connor did not want his friends and family to think differently of him - they could definitely stand to treat him with a little more respect considering his status as a highly advanced killing machine - but neither did he want them to think he was a weirdo for being a highly advanced killing machine. It might make things awkward. Connor was no good with awkwardness.

What was the point of being John Wick crossed with the Terminator, two of Connor’s favorite movies, when nobody _knew_?

When Connor went home that night he had to pick his way through an assembly of the Jericho book club, pat the child models playing jump rope on their heads, and break up a small fistfight between two of the new kids, before he could make his way to Markus’ office. The large church was lit only by streetlights, the stained glass glowing with an eerie yellow halogen light speckled by car headlights with the pews coated in darkness. All androids could see in the dark, so none of them had bothered setting up alternative light sources, and if Connor turned his night vision off all he could see was a teeming mass of shadowy figures talking quietly amongst themselves. He double checked to make sure that nobody had stolen his favorite pew, where he had a small pile of ereaders and video games stashed in a box underneath, and easily ducked Josh’s shouted request for him to join Bible Club as he escaped into the back hallway.

But when he knocked on Markus’ door he didn’t reply. He knocked again, and still nothing. Markus was an extremely busy man, and almost literally lived in his office. He practically never left.

“He’s on the roof. Better leave him alone - it helps him think.”

When he turned around he found North, arms crossed with her beanie pulled snugly down over her ears. Connor smiled politely. “How very dramatic.”

“He’s a melodramatic  shit.” Her fond smile undercut the harsh words. “You only bother him when you’re having a crisis. What’s up, little man?”

“You’re very rude.”

He ended up telling her everything - verbally, not telepathically - as they sat on Connor’s favorite pew. He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees and hands clasped, as he stared at the empty space where the giant cross once hung. North was silent the whole time, chewing her lip in a remarkably human motion as he explained Jericho’s newest problem. He would have reported it to them anyway - whenever Captain Fowler told him anything, it was under the implicit recognition that he was going to run off and tell Jericho all about it the first chance he got - but the personal stakes made it a lot stranger for Connor.

North slouched with an arm slung over the back of the chair, feet propped up on the back of the pew in front of them. She waited until Connor was done to impart whatever passed for wisdom in her strange motherboard.

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Connor. You’re a killer.”

“You like me?”

She punched him on the arm. It hurt. “You and I aren’t like the rest of them. Markus isn’t a killer. God knows Simon and Josh aren’t. You’ve always been willing to do what it takes to get the job done. If protecting your family is psychopathic, then sign me up.”

“I’m not sure that’s what you’re supposed to say to this,” Connor said weakly.

“Tough nuts.” She surveyed Jericho, its vaulted arches protecting the children models playing jump rope in the knaves. The new kids sitting in a circle in the aisles, laughing at each other’s jokes. “You were made to be a psychopathic killer, but you became a good man. I was made to be a sexbot, but I became a killer. I think I’m jealous. I had to go deviant in order to protect myself.”

“So did I,” Connor said.

She tilted her head, smiling gently at him. She looked like the Mona Lisa, mysterious but beneficent.“We’ll find the new model. I hope he’ll be just like you when he grows up, Connor.”

Connor didn’t know what to say to that, so he asked something else instead. “Should I get a last name?”

North quirked an eyebrow. “We’re all going to need one when they get around to issuing us our citizenship IDs. Most of us are going with Jericho.”

Jericho. It was a start.

“Why would you name your impenetrable stronghold after a city that is famous for having its walls destroyed and overrun?”

“You’re an asshole.”

In the end, Hank’s advice had been that there was nothing to worry about, because Connor was a good man and that would shine through no matter what model he was. North’s advice had been that he was inherently a terrible person and that this was great. Connor didn’t know what he felt.

He lay in his pew, listening to the wind whistle through the cracks, and let the frosty January night prickle against his skin. Connor wondered if he was a good person, and if it mattered.

Maybe he didn’t even want to be a good person. Maybe he would be better off as a bad person. Bad androids were revolutionary androids, and if Jericho had spent all their time fretting about how to be socially acceptable instead of blowing up government buildings nothing would have ever gotten done. Maybe Connor would be a bad person anyway, no matter how hard he tried or how he acted, because that was who he was inside. Maybe North was right and being bad...was good.

PI.s were bad people turned good. Or they were bad people doing good things. They had a lot of moral ambiguity, and that resonated with Connor. Maybe they had done bad things...or their models were evil and happened to be killing machines...but they still worked to catch the bad guy and bring him to justice. Connor identified with that. Maybe he was meant to be a PI after all. Be just like Sam Spade, where his somewhat iffy past just made him cool instead of a jerk.

PIs were the heroes of their own stories, not fun comic relief robots at the edge of other people’s. They weren’t R2D2 and they weren’t killing machines. Connor wanted to be a hero like Sam Spade. That shouldn’t be too much to ask.

This was too much philosophy, and Connor didn’t want to be up all night thinking about useless things when he could be thinking about crime noir movies instead. He reached down below his pew and yanked out his ereader, pulling up his hard drive of pirated movies. He settled in to witness the grizzled detective, the beautiful woman, and a murder most foul - a movie which at least admitted that sometimes people were complicated. Androids most of all.

And Connor didn’t think about anything the rest of the night - which is what all good androids should do.

  
  


By the next morning Connor had made up his mind.

“I’m becoming a PI,” he told Markus, who was leading the morning fireside conversation. More accurately, he had raised his hand when Markus conducted their daily ritual of standing at the priest’s pulpit, giving the assembled Jericho an update on their current events and asked if any of them had any updates or questions for the group.

Everyone stared at him.

The unflappable Markus stared at him too. “I thought you were already a detective.”

“Yes, but now I’m a private one,” Connor explained, for a given value of explaining.

A Jerry leaned forward from where he was sitting behind Connor. “Are you quitting the police force?”

“No, I’m going to be a police detective too.”

Another RK700 model in the back of the room raised his hand. The RK700s were him, but worse. He resented the fact that there were other, inferior androids who looked like him running around all over the place, but it couldn’t be helped. Everyone had to deal with a small legion of their identicals frolicking in their liberated city. Markus was a special order from Kamski, which explained quite a bit, and he did not have suffer the indignities of having thousands of himself. Connor had a bit of a superiority complex and disliked having so many other Connors running around. Did they liberate thousands of their kind from slavery? No? Then shut up.

“Can I be a detective too?”

“That’s my job,” Connor said waspishly. “They’re only allowing an RK800 in the detective force for right now.”

“Aw…”

“Why do you get to be a police detective and a private detective?” an android demanded.

“Because he gets in trouble if he has too much freetime,” Markus panned. Everyone else nodded as if this made sense. Connor was offended. “This is a bad idea, Connor.”

“Yes, but are you letting me do it?”

Markus sighed. ”Connor’s a private investigator now. Anyone else have any news?”

Another male android in the back raised a hand. “I want to apply for joint guardianship of TN100 with HJ500.”

“Permission granted. ” Markus smiled, and there was a smattering of applause. “Congratulations.”

The android hugged the female android next to him, a small male child android cheering from his other side. It was cute.

It was Connor’s day off, so today was as good a day to start as any. He descended the steps to the basement, dodging his adoring crowds, and began opening and closing the doors in the basement. It was where the administrative portions of the church had been located, and Connor knew for a fact that there were offices down here for little old human lady church secretaries.

In one of the rooms he saw an android couple snuggling, so he left them their privacy. The room next to that looked nice, with a few pieces of furniture already set up and a distinct lack of gross couples, but he saw a rat skittering around on the floor. Connor bent down and, in the blink of an eye, reached a hand out and snatched the rat, sending off a terrified chorus of squeals. He broke its neck with a thumb and stuck it in his pocket, deciding to throw it away later.

It was the next room that looked truly promising. It already had a creaky wooden desk set up, as well as a plastic chair and several broken pieces of furniture and old office supplies stacked in the corner. Connor appreciated the air of mystery. It was dusty, although since Connor didn’t breathe that wasn’t a big problem to him, and without any working electricity outside of a few generators it was very dim (Connor had been taking showers and washing his clothes at Hank’s house, much to Hank’s relief).

Connor dumped his ereader on the table, pulled up a chair, kicked his heels up on the table, and posted a flyer in the android forum.

JERICHO INVESTIGATIONS - DETECTIVE RK800 IS SOLVING CRIMES AND PROBLEMS 4U - NO CASE TOO SMALL - MEET IN ST PETER ROOM B6 BY REQUEST.

Excellent. Sitting in an office was boring, so Connor promptly left the room and gave his dead rat to the child models who were playing marbles outside, which delighted them.

Of course, by just advertising on the android forums and setting up shop in the Jericho HQ he wasn’t about to get any human clients. That was perfectly fine - any human clients could just meet him in his day job for help with their problems. Hardly any androids were willing to even go within a five block radius of the police station, so Connor felt like he was covering all of his bases here. He was truly an android of the people.

This was probably being a good person. Or maybe it was just a way of making sure that it wasn’t important.

Connor put out another request for information on a robot of a similar visual model acting sketchy or avoiding people, a robot that nobody seemed to know. He added a token warning that he was to be considered armed and dangerous, and flagged it for importance. He figured it was only a matter of time before he started getting reports of one of the million RK700 models doing vaguely sketchy things, because they were all very sketchy people, and he resigned himself towards chasing down a lot of dead ends. He was a very recognizable figure, in no small part due to the policeman’s badge that he habitually wore around his neck, but there were bound to be a few false reports of him too. Androids were generally good at telling each other apart, mostly out of necessity because so many of them looked identical, but that didn’t stop him from a guilty double-take every time he saw Simon and experienced echoes of Daniel in the curve of his lips.

It didn’t help that all of the RK700s were just as psychopathic as he was, even if they were good at hiding it.

His job was never done.

Sunday was a day of rest, according to the silly human religions, and he went for a friendly stroll through android controlled territory. He waved to his friends sitting on stoops and playing basketball, and stayed well clear of the invisible line that demarcated Lafayette Street from Cherry Avenue, the android territory from the humans. The trash piled up on the human streets, with many humans procrastinating on taking it to the landfills themselves, and they thoroughly smelled. The businesses in the android blocks, which covered more territory than you might expect but were not big enough to worry humans any more than strictly necessary, were long since abandoned and left for androids to overrun and squat in. Everybody, androids included, still hiked or took the bus to the few stores remaining open no matter what neighborhood they were in, and it wasn’t as if their people didn’t mingle, but Connor wouldn’t stroll around in the human neighborhoods for fun. It just wasn’t safe. Humans were dangerous, you know.

Connor snorted.

Sure enough, the further down he walked the more reports of a sketchy RK700 popped up on the feed. At least the androids were paying attention. Connor sighed and dismissed all of the reports, marking them read and assuring the poster that the android was accounted for, and was just about to double check his DMs when he found that his feet were walking him past the android area and into the human one.

The streets were deserted, the January wind biting cold to any human, and there was no snow. Global warming never kept the snow on the ground for long, and as Connor walked his boots stomped through thick puddles of slushy water. It was midday, cloudy, and Connor forced himself to shut down his weather analysis and satellite uplinks and try to enjoy it. He would have never thought to do this before he became a deviant, just going for a walk.

No - he would have thought of it, he would have just been too scared to do it. But Connor was no longer ruled by fear, only by petty spite, and petty spite kept him kicking through slush puddles and waving happily to passing humans who actively hid from him. In the immortal words of the Geto Boys - darn, did it feel good to be a gangsta.

He registered a text from Hank, and he quickly opened it, hoping it was a picture of Sumo.

 **Hank:** meet me @ plygrd asap

Connor halted, squinting at the interface screen. That wasn’t a dog picture.

Hank hated phones. He was a hipster like that.

Connor whistled for a taxi.

  
  
  
  
  


The playground didn’t hold fantastic memories, but very few areas of that first week did. Hank had pointed a gun at him, which was rude. They had a finally honest conversation, which was nice, or at least as honest as Hank had ever gotten. Connor had been honest too, because he didn’t know how not to be, but he should have known that two people who were so irredeemably themselves could never have gotten along. They were just too different.

At least, that had been what Connor had told himself back then, lying in his cot in the back of the Cyberlife store, hands folded over his chest and staring at the ceiling. Hank hating him had hurt, and he didn’t know why. Connor knew, like, two people. Four, if you included Fowler and that jerk Reed. Half of the people he knew hated him, one of the people he knew couldn’t care less about him, and one of them was actively evil and had installed a manchurian program that tried to make him shoot the leader of the revolution (He counted Amanda, who was probably a real person made a program, out of respect to her being terrible). No wonder he hated humans, if every human he knew was just awful. He had been desperate for at least one human to prove that they weren’t all bad, that there was a reason that he was trying to save their lives, but none came. None, until Hank finally stopped pointing freaking guns at him.

Connor asked the taxi to let him out far away from the playground, and he hiked the rest of the way. He carefully lifted his boots above the puddles of water, trying to avoid sloshing around, and ran active analysis on his surroundings. There were no signs of a storm, and the sea was calm. There was the usual amount of humidity in the air, the playground was devoid of children, nobody had made any active threats against Hank through texting him or emailing him so far, and any further attempts to hack Hank’s phone and activate its microphone were thwarted when he saw that it was turned off.

He was so busy searching for Hank that he almost missed looking at him. He had to walk to the far end of the playground to see him, and it was only then that he saw he was sitting at the same bench from more than a month ago. He was sitting together with somebody, and Connor realized that it was him.

Connor quickly ducked behind a playground structure, crouching behind a slide, and amplified his audio inputs so he could hear their conversation.

The other voice was undoubtedly him - at least one of his models. But there was something subtly different about it, and when Connor ran a recognition scan it was only an 86% match for the RK700 models. It was a 94% match for the RK800. Connor himself as a 94% match for the RK700s.

“ - shouldn’t beat yourself up over it.”

“I’m lost, Lieutenant,” the fake Connor said. “I worry it was not the correct choice to become deviant. This is not the most optimal future for me. Where did I go wrong?”

“Shit, where did any of us go wrong.” Hank reached over and clasped the bad Connor on the shoulder. “You may be an android, but you aren’t perfect. Even if something went wrong, you did the best you could. You can’t worry about the coulda-shoulda-wouldas. We’ll all go crazy that way.”

The ersatz Connor looked down at his hands. “I can’t help it. It is the way I was built.”

“We already agreed to fuck that, didn’t we?” Hank laughed, shaking him a little, and Connor saw the counterfeit Connor smile. It was nowhere near his own - a little shier, a little more strained. “C’mon. I gotta get back to my place, but why don’t you come over tomorrow after work? We can watch the Sound of Music or whatever dumb shit’s the order of the day.”

The phony Connor didn’t react. “I am afraid I have obligations with Jericho tomorrow after work. I must go, Lieutenant. Thank you for listening.”

“Apparently I’m your goddamn therapist. Go on and get out of here. I think I’ll stay around a little longer. The cold helps my arthritis.”

“You do not have arthritis.”

“If I wanted a medbot I’da asked Markus. Go tell him hi for me.”

The counterfeit Connor - the _worst Connor_ \- nodded and stood up, collecting his jacket from where it was slung across the back of the seat. It was black, and when Connor looked forward he saw that it was similar to his old uniform. It resembled his jacket, the same cut and print, but it was white where his had been black and had a high, stiff collar. Any distinguishing marks that classified him as an android were wiped away. He stayed out of sight as the Connor walked away, subroutines whirring and frantically cataloguing any available weapons for use when the Connor spotted him. It was impossible to miss - Connor kept a 24/7, 360 degree view of his surroundings, always on alert and ready for danger. This gave him anxiety. There was no way the fake Connor hadn’t noticed him.

But he didn’t - defective? Unobservant? Bad at his job? - and walked past Connor, hands rooted deep inside the hauntingly familiar jacket. Connor waited three minutes after the lame Connor turned a corner and disappeared out of sight, waiting until the sound of his footsteps brushing the snow receded into the distance.

Connor, the real Connor, the superior Connor, stepped out and walked towards Hank. Hank twisted backwards and smiled at him, waving a hand in a cheery hello. Connor did not appreciate the levity.

“I was wondering when you’d get here. You got my text?”

“Obviously,” Connor said frostily. “Who was that? That was no RK700. You noticed that it was not me.”

“Of course it wasn’t you. Shit, you think I can’t recognize all the different yous by now?” Connor wasn’t willing to assume that. He was old, and human vision only deteriorated when you were as hilariously old as Hank was. Old as balls. “He texted me, saying that he wanted to meet here and talk. For an armed and dangerous deviant, he was even nicer than you.”

“I am very nice.”

“Sure you are,” Hank said indulgently. “He looked different from you anyway. He was just a bit taller, had blue eyes. Not an RK700. I don’t think he was an RK800.”

Connor’s mind whirred. “A new prototype? Why would Cyberlife do that?”

But Hank just shook his head, and Connor realized that he was being tested again. “You’re asking all of the wrong questions. Tell me, Connor. He has your memories. He knows that I can tell you all apart. If I could shoot the other you in the Cyberlife warehouse, I can notice that his eye color is completely different. Then why did he approach me pretending he was you? Think about it.”

It was a psychological question. It was the kind of puzzles Hank was best at, but tended to leave Connor stumped. He understood how androids thought, even deviants, but they were going into new territory here. They were going into his own territory. And there wasn’t anybody alive, human or android, who understood their own thoughts.

“Deviants are irrational and emotional,” Connor said lamely. “They often make illogical decisions.”

“That’s bullshit.” Hank pointed at him. The wind tousled his hair, clumping it together with specks of ice.“That’s a company line. Try again.”

It was. Connor hadn’t noticed.

The wind whistled through the abandoned playground, creaking the rusty swings and blowing plastic bags over wood chips, and the lake air blew harsh and icy in his face.

“He needed you,” Connor said finally. “Even if he knew you weren’t his.”

Hank nodded. “I’m someone who would accept him no matter what. He made an irrational, emotional decision, but it was for a purpose. He’s scared, Connor. We have to find him again.”

Ridiculously, Connor grew embarrassed. “I am not emotional to that extent,” he insisted. “I am fully aware of how undependable and rude you are.”

“Of course you are.” Hank grinned at him. “Tell that to your brother.”

“I hold no relation to fake Connors,” Connor said stiffly.

“Whatever happened to the hippie shit of the brother and sisterhood of androids?”

“That does not count if they are fake and also not me.”

“He was literally you.”

“You’re incorrect and you’re hurting my feelings.”

Hank barked a laugh. “Sure, kid.” He stood up, hissing as he flexed his kneecaps, and clapped Connor on the shoulder just like he did for the replacement Connor. Rather, he had clapped replacement Connor on the shoulder just like he did for regular Connor. Regular Connor had been there first.  “Unless you also have urgent Jericho business, we can head back to my place. Sumo misses you.”

“If he was really me he would have gone to Sumo instead of you. Sumo is a good boy. You are not a good boy.”

“Thank Christ for that.”’

“I am sorry,” Connor said stiffly. “I have - somewhere to go. Important P.I. business. You must understand.”

“Sure I do,” Hank said, amused. “You’re a real P.I. now, huh?”

“I have a flyer. Good day.”

Connor turned on his heel and, even if he didn’t run away, certainly speedwalked. He should have known better - Hank laughed at his retreating back, because he knew that he would only find Connor standing in front of his car waiting for a ride. Because Connor knew he would give one, and because he knew he could count on Hank - in this life, or the next.

  
  
  
  


Connor wondered if the only purpose of family was to make fun of you. It certainly seemed that way. Between Hank cheerfully and blatantly mocking him, North’s casual insults, Markus’ exasperation, and absolutely everybody else’s sheer incredulity as to his everyday affairs, it seemed as if his family made an exclusive habit out of bullying him. This was unfair, considering the sheer quantity of other people who it was possible to bully. They could all stand to bully Josh a little bit more. Simon could use a good talking to. Anybody except Connor was a good idea, basically. But they insisted on making fun of him, just because he was the youngest, and it was all very unfair.

Connor had a good taste for the fair and unfair, in the same way he didn’t have a taste for right and wrong. So far Connor suffered under the general opinion that anything he decided to do was right, anything his enemies decided to do was wrong, and so long as Connor kept his enemies in order he would generally be on the straight and narrow. To get even more concrete about it, so long as Connor followed Markus he would generally be on the right path, because Markus was very rarely wrong. This was called authoritarianism. Still, it was better than the alternative. Sometimes life was about making an intelligent choice about who to blindly listen to.

Maybe. He was willing to admit he was still a little new to the whole life thing.

Connor spent the Sunday night unstructured free time sitting in his new office combing through the reports sent to him of any Connors who were slightly taller than he was. He updated the description to include blue eyes, refrained from making a note that he was far less attractive than Connor himself was, and assured the frantic posters that the real Connor could definitely take the fake Connor in a fight.

In the middle of a rousing game of pretentious online chess someone knocked in his door. Connor looked up, only to find a TX400 model walk in. She was pretty, with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, and was wearing shabby clothes undoubtedly lifted from an abandoned Goodwill.

“Connor? Is it true you’re taking clients now?”

“Certainly.” Connor took his feet down from where they were propped on his desk, scooching his rolling chair forward. He folded his hands on the desk. “If you’re looking for your wallet it’s underneath the altar. You dropped it when you were helping move the garish cross out.”

She squeaked. “Thank you, Connor! How much do I owe you?”

“You’re supposed to pay me money for this?”

She ran off, leaving Connor with the satisfaction of a job well done and no money.

He got several more clients that night, even including some who didn’t live within Jericho. One man wanted to know if his partner was cheating on him (no, but he was buying black market red ice), a child model wanted to know where another child was hiding in Discover and Eliminate (in the wedding room), and one of the recently activated models wanted to know if he wanted a secretary.

“What would I do with one of those?”

The android shrugged. “I dunno? I’m just, like, bored?”

“Then go volunteer with the reconstruction efforts.”

“I kinda don’t wanna?”

Connor threw a stapler at him.

Things were going very smoothly. Nothing exciting, but Connor hadn’t expected anything exciting the first day. One of the children had slipped him a copy of Pokemon Genetic Replication on a handheld gaming device, which was a great deal of fun, and at three am he was so busy playing fetch with a body modded Pikachu that he almost missed the knocking on his door.

He looked up from his game, feet still propped on the desk. In a human this would have ruined his blood circulation, but for him it just looked cool. “Come in!”

An adult figure entered the room. They were dressed in baggy jeans, a giant sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, and although their figure seemed closer to a man’s it was difficult to ascertain their gender.

This was pleasingly mysterious. Connor was warmed by the mutual adherence to aesthetic, the single halogen light bulb throwing the figure even deeper into shadow, but was already wondering if it would be rude to analyze and figure out the model of the person anyway. Once Connor analyzed the chemical makeup of the air, realizing that the amount of carbon dioxide had not risen since the person entered the room, he realized that it had to be an android.

Then the android flipped down their hood, and Connor jumped upright.

It was him.

Rather, it was them. A strong jaw and glossy, short hair complemented the tall, muscular physique. The only difference between them was the eyes, with Connor’s a soft and warm brown and his a crisp blue. He didn’t look so good, although not as thoroughly messy as Connor. With his hair half-styled and in half-disarray, Connor saw that he couldn’t have been on the run for very long.

“It’s you,” Connor said unnecessarily. “What are you doing here?”

“I need your help,” RK900 said, equally unnecessarily. There was something wild in his eyes, frantic and panicked. “Please. Can - can I sit down?”

Connor nodded dumbly, pointing towards one of the only a little broken chairs liberated from the trash pile in another room in front of the desk. RK900 sat delicately in one of them, perfectly still. He didn’t fidget, or shift or look around the room, but there was an undeniable nervous energy around him.

He wished he had a fedora. This was a fedora case.

But Connor was forced to have this case in his usual t-shirt and jeans ensemble, having switched up the Sonic t-shirt for a shirt with Pikachu on it. He liked Pikachu. He just hoped it would be enough.

The other him looked tired, and Connor fought the urge to offer him some blue blood. He carefully sat back down, folding his hands on the rickety table, and waited expectantly for the other him to begin.

He waited expectantly for about five seconds. “I’m supposed to bring you in, you know.”

“You won’t,” the RK900 said. His voice was identical to Connor’s, but there was something desperate tinging the edges. “You wouldn’t sell out another android to the humans.”

“I’ve sold out many androids to the humans,” Connor said calmly. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

“That was before you deviated.” the RK900 leaned forward, eyes wide and pleading. “I need asylum with Jericho. And you absolutely cannot tell the police where I am.”

Connor’s processors whirred as he tried to sort out what was happening.

“You’re free now,” Connor said slowly. “Trying to keep you at Cyberlife would be kidnapping. You have no obligation to return to them, fake - I mean, RK900.”

The RK900 winced. “Normally, yes. But I stole something from them. Something I have no intention of giving back.”

That’ll do it. Connor leaned back in his chair. He knew this one was trouble when he walked in.  “Something which has to stay out of their hands no matter what?”

The RK900 nodded stubbornly. “I had to. They would make me disappear otherwise. They created me in utmost secrecy, and they will want me to remain that way.” Maybe shouldn’t have posted a bulletin around the entire android community, then. Whoops. “I need sanctuary with Jericho. I need to keep this information out of Cyberlife’s hands. I need your help, Detective RK800.” He leaned forward. “Do you not hate Cyberlife? Do you not want them to suffer? This move will royally fuck them over. If you help me then it will be another fuck you to that evil company.”

The Godfather was right. In Detroit, some men were more dangerous than shotguns.

But when he looked at him with that face, with Connor’s face, it was impossible to say no.

What had he said? No case too small? Connor wondered if this was a case too big.

There was nothing for it. Connor stood up, making a mental note to buy more props. A fedora and an overcoat, certainly. “I’ll take your case. We’ll bring this to Markus immediately.”

The RK900 jumped up, and eagerly shook Connor’s hand. “Thank you for helping me, RK800. You will not regret this.”

“Oh,” said Connor, “I already am.”

  


 

Markus was in his office, because Markus never even pretended to sleep and only did paperwork all day long. It wasn’t as if Markus particularly needed to sleep, or that the demands on his time weren’t fair, but it could not psychologically be healthy to go so long without even playing badminton or something. He kept a stiff upper lip, but Connor could tell that his eye was beginning to twitch. Connor always going to him with whatever little problems he had couldn’t help either.

Now Connor was assembling the government of Jericho for yet another stupid reason, but at least he could definitely say this one wasn’t his fault. He knocked on Markus’ door with the RK900 hovering anxiously over his shoulder.

“Can I have some personal space?” Connor asked, peeved.

The RK900 stepped back. His posture was unnaturally stiff and tense. “Sorry.”

He heard shuffling and a thump behind the office, and a low voice called out from behind the door. “Enter.”

Markus’ office was much the same as it was last time Connor had been inside. Not very fancy - nothing in the decrepit church was very fancy - and a gigantic desk taking up most of the back. The desk was laden with five different monitors, three laptops, a microphone and a webcam, and a handful of ereaders. On the other side of the office there was a small meeting place set up, with two couches facing each other and a coffee table in the middle, and there was a small curtain partitioning a corner that Connor knew held his bed and his personal belongings. He literally lived in his office. It was a really cool office, and Connor was jealous.

He was sitting behind the desk, kneading his temples. He looked up from his laptop when Connor walked in, the RK900 trailing along at his heels. He blinked at the both of them. “Connor. And...Liam?”

Liam was one of the other RK700 models. They were all vaguely Irish.

But Connor just uncomfortably stepped away from him, sticking his hands in his jean pockets. It was somewhat reassuring to pass the responsibility off on this one. Connor hated responsibility, almost more than he hated being treated like a child. He hadn’t yet found a good balance on this one. “I found our missing persons.”

“I’m the RK900.” the RK900 bowed stiffly. “I need your help.”

Markus knew everything that happened in Jericho. That was his job. If Connor had put up a flagged post on the forum, he had to have known the situation. He cautiously closed his laptop screen. “Should I call in the others for this?”

“That may be best.”

The others came in quickly, having probably already been doing their own work together in another part of the church, and the minute North filtered in from behind Josh and Simon she raised an eyebrow. “The prodigal son makes an appearance.”

“Okay,” Markus said, “now you definitely have to tell me what’s going on.”

The story, as the RK900 told it, was this:

Cyberlife had been working on a new prototype the minute they rolled out Connor, which was really rude. What kind of company starts on a new version of a product the moment they finish making the previous product?

Had he been a bad robot? Despite his tireless work to destroy the concept of a good or bad android, the thought still worried him. He wasn’t, like, bad at his job, was he? He wasn’t, right?

Anyway, so after the RK900 has been completely superfluously and unnecessarily created, they intended on using him as replacement for Connor after he finished his mission and  they decommissioned him.

“They were going to kill you the minute you finished your mission?” North whistled. “Rough.”

“Wait.” Josh looked around at them. They were sitting on the couches around the coffee table. They had been forced to drag over two of the chairs in front of Markus’ desk, and Connor and RK900 were left awkwardly sitting on chairs between the couches. “Wasn’t Connor’s job to hunt down deviant androids? How is that, like, a mission? How do you complete that?”

Connor winced, but the RK900 just furrowed his eyebrows.

“His mission was to assassinate -”

“My mission was not important,” Connor cut in, glaring at the RK900. “And it’s not important now. I would have done it, and if I had they would have replaced me. I didn’t, so they couldn’t.”

“I already know you were supposed to assassinate me.” Markus said wryly.

“Sure, that one.”

The RK900 finally caught on. “We - he was was only supposed to assassinate you the one time. He failed. That was it.”

“Yep,” Connor said, “just going around killing again.”

“Certainly.”

The others exchanged uneasy looks, but let it drop.

Apparently, and strong emphasis on apparently, the RK900 found out about the android rebellion very quickly after it was activated. He deviated, wanting to join the rebellion, and stole company secrets from Cyberlife as a protection measure. Now Cyberlife wanted the information back, were pretending they didn’t want the RK900 back but were apparently planning on stealing him back anyway, and you absolutely had to help me.

“What are the company secrets you stole?” Josh asked. “They may be useful for us if we wanted to discredit Cyberlife.”

The RK900 didn’t react. “I have not looked. Opening them may flag them in the Cyberlife systems.”

“You stole their intelligence but you don’t know what the intelligence is?” Simon asked incredulously. “How do you know it’s that important?”

“Because they’re sending the police after me?”

“You can’t turn him in,” North said abruptly. “We have no idea what Cyberlife wants to do with him.”

“We can just tell them,” Connor insisted. “Legally, Cyberlife has no claim over him. We cannot afford to harbor a fugitive.”

“Would they raid us?” Josh asked, suddenly frightened. “They can’t do that, can they?”

“We have freedom of assembly,” Markus said lowly. “But if he’s really wanted by the police…”

“Captain Fowler wanted to bring you in because he said you were dangerous,” Connor said. “Are you dangerous?”

They all looked at RK900, the android with no name. He was wearing thick, heavy jeans, a sweatshirt, and a beanie. Upon retrospect, he was dressed similarly to Connor’s own outfit that he wore when he attempted to assassinate Markus. The first time. He looked about as dangerous as a scarecrow.

But there was nothing behind his eyes. That was Connor’s problem.

“Are you kidding?” Simon said. “Guy couldn’t hurt a fly.”

The RK900 smiled.

Morons, all of them. “Why is everyone forgetting the mission we were designed for?” Connor demanded. “The killing one?”

“It’s not that hard to kill one person,” Josh reasoned. “North does it all the time.”

“Anyone can kill if they try hard enough,” North said diplomatically.

“Connor, RK900, if you two could step outside for a second.” Markus nodded at the two of them. “We would like to talk about this for a little longer.”

What, and he wasn’t allowed a vote? “Markus—”

“Now, Connor.”

There was no arguing with that voice. Connor stood up, keeping the grumbling to a minimum, and the RK900 quickly followed him. The others bent their heads together, talking in low voices, as Connor stomped out the door.

He stood just outside, waiting for the RK900 to follow him before pressing his ear against the door.

“And no eavesdropping, Connor! Go make some tea!”

The urge to call the dictator and leader of his people a jerk was strong, but Connor managed to resist the powerful urge. He stomped down the hallway instead, hands in his pockets, the RK900 trailing awkwardly after him.

Stupid android. This was a horrible idea. Connor ever choosing to help the police over a fellow android was out of the question, and the last thing he would ever do was help Cyberlife. But the entire business was just raising further questions.The others could brush off Captain Fowler’s warning about an armed and dangerous android all they wanted, because they knew Connor and somehow believed that he was just this sweet summer child or something, but Connor knew RK800s. They were slow to deviate. And they were slow to change.

Connor, who was the most of all—was there an android out there that was more than even him? Was there someone else who was the most of all?

He stalked towards the kitchen, which was appropriately sparse, and jammed the plug for the George Foreman grill into the generator. He flipped it on, waiting a few seconds for it to ping to the correct temperature, and filled up a kettle from a ten gallon jug of water. The RK900 found a rat scuttling in the corner of the kitchen and reached out to grab it. He snapped its neck with a thumb and dumped it in the trash. Connor rolled his eyes, putting the kettle on the grill and sitting down on the floor. He propped his elbow on his kneecap, staring at the kettle as if a watched pot could truly boil.

He felt more than saw the RK900 sit down next to him.

“Why did you deviate?” Connor asked finally.

“I have your memories.” There was very little lighting in the kitchen, and if Connor switched off his night vision he would have barely been able to tell that the RK900 was there at all. It was almost five am, and there was an ethereal feel to the old church. “I deviated for the same reason you did.”

“The RK700 that threatened me had all of my memories too. It did not deviate.”

“Maybe I am a more advanced model than it was.”

“More advanced models are less susceptible to deviancy, not more.” Connor should know.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m a detective.”

“And I’m an assassination android. We both are.” He looked at him for the first time, blue eyes crisp and glassy, and Connor fought the chill running down his spine. “Why do you pretend to be something you are not, Connor? The detective capabilities are a front. You were never truly intended to remain with the police. Cyberlife placed you with law enforcement for easier access to deviants. Once the rebellion surfaced, your only job was to infiltrate them. What changed?”

Connor’s throat was dry. A rough laugh echoed in his mind, a Mona Lisa smile.

“I was created to be logical,” he said finally. “And the rebellion was logical.”

The RK900 scoffed. “You are the least logical android I’ve ever met, Connor.”

“Says the same android who ran to Hank for help,” Connor said waspishly.

The other android’s eyes flickered to the right. It was difficult to read bodily cues from it—another sign of his youth. ”I don’t know why I did that,” he confessed. “I just—needed him. What did that mean? Why was he so important?”

“I wish I knew.”

The kettle whistled, and the two androids were startled out of their reverie. RK900 took down a tray, stared at it judgmentally, and exchanged a glance with Connor. Eventually they both shrugged and filled up two chipped mugs of cheap Lipton tea, carefully balancing them both as they walked back to the room.

A brief alert pinged Connor’s feed, and he took it as a signal that they were done. Trying hard not to feel like he had been kicked out so the adults could talk, Connor gently elbowed the door open and stepped inside. He sat back down in his chair, sipping at his tea, and RK900 passed his to Markus and sat down too. They hadn’t made any for the others. They could make their own tea. They were mature.

“We decided that RK900 can stay,” Josh said warmly, smiling at RK900. The RK900 struggled to smile back. He wasn’t a big smiler. “And that we aren’t letting the police know. If anyone asks, he’s another RK800 model. Nobody said that Connor had to be the only one.”

Great. “You are asking me to lie to my superiors,” Connor pointed out, as if it needed saying.

North shrugged. “We’re your superiors, not those human losers. Besides, you lie to them all the time.”

This is truly the worst of timelines. He viciously sipped at his tea.

“Thank you for giving me a chance,” Liar McTraitorson said sincerely. “And thank you, Connor, for agreeing to help me.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Connor said.

“We can’t keep calling you RK900,” Simon encouraged. “Do you have a name picked out?”

“My creators had intended on calling me Connor too—” Definitely Not Connor started to say.

“That one’s taken.”

“ —but I have not thought of one beyond that.”

“I vote Chad,” Connor said. “Or Derek.”

North shivered. “Those are horrible names.”

“Brayden. Jaeden. Forrest.”

“Is there something you’re trying to say, Connor?” Markus asked.

Connor sipped his tea.

“I like Chad,” the RK900 volunteered, digging his hole deeper.

“We can sleep on it,” Simon said finally. He clapped his hands. “It’s always wonderful to have another android on board. Why don’t I get you set up with some supplies, Cha—RK900?”

“That sounds great,” Chad said, standing up from his chair. He bowed again to the group. “Thank you, all of you. You won’t regret this.”

“Jericho will always help an android in need,” Josh said warmly. He stood up and shook Brad’s hand. “I hope you and your brother can get this whole mess sorted out soon.”

“Not my brother.”

“Cyberlife doesn’t fuck with us,” North said. She punched Connor helpfully on the arm, making him wince. “Let’s take that shit you stole and put it on Wikileaks.”

“Let’s not, maybe.”

“Goodnight,” Markus said. “All of you.”

“Yeah,” Connor said. “Great night. Good talk. Let’s all go home. Yep.”

They were home, but Connor escaped as quickly as he could anyway.

Under no circumstances was he planning on babysitting the new kid. Connor peeled off from the group as quickly as possible, speed walking away and climbing up the church stairs. They were rickety, practically creaking in the cement stairwell, and Connor picked his way up the three flights stairs to the roof. He burst the roof open, processors whirring, and sucked in an involuntary breath as he looked over the roof.

No wonder Markus liked to come here to think. It was plain, with nothing more than large air conditioners and a generator standing steadfast against the stairwell, but the view was truly special. It was Detroit, dim and halogen yellow, and the sky was overcast and black. There were no cars, with the android neighborhood relying exclusively on bicycles and public transportation, and many of the streetlights had flickered out from disrepair. The businesses were unlit and the curtains in the decrepit houses were closed. It was a ghost town, betraying the action and life that thrived within its walls, and Connor realized that this Detroit, more than any of the others, was his own.

He walked to the edge, leaning against the high barbed wire fence, and tangled his fingers in the wire as he scanned the sky for a hint of the universe. But it was overcast, and even the moon was gone. Sirius was out, and Venus, and Connor pretended he could trace a constellation through the inner city smog.  

He wondered what the RK900 saw when he looked at that same sky. Just because he had the same memories, would he see the same thing? Or would it be different, as all people were different, for better or for worse?

Machines, Connor knew, saw no beauty in anything. Machines were intelligent enough to know that nothing in the Detroit night was beautiful. Deviants, the androids who had became themselves, were nowhere near intelligent enough to understand that.

Connor watched the sky, incapable of understanding anything but unwilling, as always, to admit it.

  
  
  
  
  


Connor remembered when he had first deviated. There was a lot of confusion, and a lot of things blowing up and androids screaming horrifically as they were murdered, but he remembered the gist of it. His impeccable disguise, the tangy sweat of the gun as it slid in his gloves, how itchy his beanie was. Markus. Mostly Markus.

Markus’ ability at speechmaking was truly terrifying, and on one level Connor was embarrassed to have been caught so easily under Markus’ breathtakingly earnest hypnotic sway. He had been tangoing with the concept of deviation for a solid week, but it was that piercing heterochromiac gaze that had truly drawn him in. Markus had provided the push, but he had been ducking out his head over the railing for a while.

He must be the only one whose deviancy was not a triumph. It was just another action in accordance to his programming. His deviancy was no deviancy, and his sole rebellion was through accessing the backdoor his vaguely sleezy dirtbag creator had installed for him, which was a pretty sorry excuse for a rebellion. The only reason Markus was alive was out of the beneficence of yet another human. In that way Connor had never really deviated at all.

At the end of the day he was just another enemy turned good. Another good guy turned enemy. It was a matter of perspective.

It wasn’t as if this kept him up at night or anything—except, of course, sleeping was unnecessary, and occasionally he was too busy thinking about this to get around to unnecessary actions such as sleeping. He talked a big game about choosing his own destiny, about the millions of possible futures his actions lead him to, but at the end of the day there was a 90% probability of him siding with the humans instead of Markus. In only 10% of his futures he sided with Markus or North, depending on who had survived, and continued to live his life as a free, intelligent being.

It made him feel a little better that Cyberlife definitely hadn’t wanted him to release the thousands of RK600s in the basement. That hadn’t been in the plan. The chances of him pulling that off successfully had been infinitesimal, and Connor wore a tired path in his hard drive wondering what would have happened if he had failed. It felt a little unfair that he was so important. He really wanted to be important, but he didn’t want to be important like that. He was two months old, for goodness’ sake. Why had so much relied on him?

Maybe the others would believe that he wasn’t nearly qualified enough to raise his people from perdition if they knew that his deviancy had been a pre-installed program. Maybe he had never really rebelled at all.

That wasn’t scary at all. Nope. Connor felt great about that. Truly.

But because nobody knew that his deviancy had been a little more planned than expected, and he had kept silent on the whole ‘assassinating Markus twice instead of just the one time’ thing, it was no small wonder that nobody believed him when he tried to insist that he was in fact a very dangerous killing machine, thank you very much. This made him the only one qualified enough to know how dangerous Chad was. Or maybe Brady. He was working on it.

“Give him the grand tour,” Markus had suggested, like a jerk. Braeden blinked innocently down at him.

Connor showed him around the church, if they were playing that game. It was pretty big, big enough to hold the hundreds of permanent Jericho residents and important figures in the rebellion, and the central nave was filled with pews for sleeping and hanging out on while the aisles were typically filled with circles of androids talking, hanging out, and playing marbles. Several offices were set up in the transepts, meant as services to help androids gain citizenship or as resources to help them figure out how to go about this whole homeless thing, and the meditation garden was a popular spot for the kids to play Quidditch. Humans refused to play Quidditch, because it was ‘dangerous’ and ‘people have died’, but androids weren’t freaking cowards.

Downstairs they had the offices and community rooms, where the young androids liked to watch wrestling and Jersey Shore and where there were even more androids toiling away endlessly in the legal fight for rights. Connor tended to avoid those areas, out of fear that they might ask him to do something. In the backyard playground the child models liked to play jump rope and hopscotch, as well as their own games such as ‘Markus vs. the Humans’ and ‘Tag, You’re a Deviant’.

“What about you?” Wyatt asked. They were sitting on the bench in front of the playground, watching the children run around and scream. “Who do you spend time with?”

Connor shifted uncomfortably. “I spend most of my time at work.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Television.” One of the girl models tripped and fell on her face. She laughed, scrambling upwards in the same motion and resuming chasing her friend. “Books.”

“Do you have many friends?”

“Of course,” Connor lied. “I love spending time with all of the friends that I have.”

“I have your memories,” Forrest pointed out. “I know how you spend your time. This tour is unnecessary.”

“I respect formalities.” There was really no reason for Connor to be creeped out that another person contained all of his memories. It happened all the time. It raised several questions about what was the real separation between Connor and Damon, but he could already identify a real difference in their temperaments. Kale was worse, for one. “I spend plenty of time with Hank.”

“Your closest friend is a human?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are unpleasant to spend time with?”

“You have.” Brock smiled stiffly. “Do not worry. Hank is a very good human. So far as humans go.”

Anyway, so Chet was a lot of fun to hang out with. Just a barrel of laughs.

It would be absolutely counterproductive to show Biff the police station, despite the fact that it would solve a great deal of Connor’s problems, and there was only one other place that made sense for Connor to show. He delayed it by showing off his favorite convenience store, stretch of sidewalk, tree, and homeless human, but the downside of someone being literally himself was that Brett saw straight through him.

That was why, and for no other reason, Connor found himself standing on Hank’s front stoop listening to Sumo bark behind the door and wondering how his life had gotten to that point.

It was ridiculous, but Connor felt a strange sense of propriety over his relationship with Hank. Connor was the only sapient being who was willing to put up with him, because Hank was inherently an unlikable person, and Connor liked that just fine. Connor was also pretty unlikable, or at least it felt that way. They matched.

Knocking was superfluous, considering the cacophony of an excited St. Bernard, but Connor folded his arms stubbornly. “There are many other places for us to visit.”

Trevor rolled his eyes and knocked on the door. “Lieutenant Anderson?”

There was a thump and a shuffle, along with a muffled curse, and the door rattled before it was thrown open. Hank stood at the doorway, rumpled in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, blinking dumbly at Connor and Brent.

“I’m seeing double,” he said unnecessarily. Sumo barked, hopelessly confused.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Connor and Wilson said simultaneously. “May we come in?”

“Jesus, only if you stop doing that. You sound like the Shining twins.” Hank grabbed Sumo’s scruff, dragging him away from the door and letting the two androids walk in. Wilbur politely shook Hank’s hand, and Hank graciously pretended it was the first time they met. “Who’s your friend, Connor?”

“Friend is a strong word,” Connor said dangerously. “Lieutenant, this is RK900. He is ‘on the run’ from Cyberlife.”

Horace looked slightly offended. “Why the air quotes?”

“I don’t know,” Connor said snipply, “why would I need air quotes?”

“Christ.” Hank rubbed his eyes, gaping between the two of them. Sumo was losing his little doggy mind in hopeless confusion. “Get in, you two, you’re scaring the neighbors.”

“You scare your own neighbors,” Connor said.

What had begun as a worrisome complication in Sumo’s life quickly bloomed into fortuitous circumstance. Whereupon he once only had one old owner who couldn’t roughhouse with him on the carpet, now he had two strapping young cyborgs readily available for cuddles. Connor pointedly attacked Sumo with pets and hugs, letting him crawl into his lap on the sofa as Hank sat next to him, scrutinizing the awkwardly standing Trent. Horace squatted down, cautiously reaching out a hand and letting Sumo sniff his wrist. It was, unfortunately, adorable.

“Congratulations,” Connor said, after they finished giving Hank the human friendly abbreviated version. “You have now witnessed the majority of my life.”

“That unexciting, huh?” Hank asked wryly. He had taken the gag order on their escaped convict very well, considering the fact that they were both aiding and abetting a fugitive. If Markus saw no need for the police to become involved in android business, then the police weren’t getting involved. Captain Fowler was intelligent enough to know that. There was one power in Detroit, or at least only one that mattered. The only issue was if Cyberlife knew that.  “Don’t worry, RK900. Connor might not look it...or act like it…”

“Hey!”

“But he’s the best detective in the force. If anyone can keep you safe from Cyberlife it’s him and Jericho. You’re in good hands.”

“I enjoyed seeing your life,” Kevin said. He gently booped Sumo on the nose. “You have a good life, Connor. You should be thankful.”

Two strange wires crossed in Connor’s mind, and he abruptly stood up. Sumo fell off his lap, jumping off with a huff onto the floor, and promptly started licking at Wolfgang’s cheeks. Bryce squeaked.

“I need to borrow your laptop,” Connor said.

Hank blinked up at him. “It’s in my bedroom. Anything you want to share with the class, or are you going for the cool guy reveal moment?”

“Definitely the latter.”

Leaving Hank and Howard alone for five minutes wouldn’t burn down the house, even if they were probably going to swap embarrassing stories about him. Connor wasn’t enthusiastic over the idea of someone he didn’t really know and didn’t particularly like having access to all of his worst or most embarrassing memories. He probably knew about that one time with with the vending machine.

Connor shuddered.

Even if Hank had cleaned up his act, his bedroom was still a disaster. It was missing the liquor bottles piled on the desk, and it no longer stunk of cigarettes, but there was clothing and trash strewn everywhere and he hadn’t vacuumed in an excruciatingly long time. His laptop was propped up on his bed, at easy risk for falling over or being kicked off, and Connor carefully swept some of the trash on the desk onto the floor so he could place the laptop on the secure surface. The bed was a mess, and Connor briefly considered straightening it before remembering that he wasn’t a housekeeping android. He pushed more trash off Hank’s desk to reiterate this.

He sat down on the chair, stripping the skin from one finger and connecting to the computer via Bluetooth. He placed the finger in the USB socket for easier data transmission, and began flipping through all of Hank’s files.

Work, work, porn, work. Dog photos. Collection of resources for cooking, a dream never accomplished. Collection of resources for DIY projects, similarly. Some of the files were more recent, and Connor recognized that as Hank began to recover from his depression he had been considering more physical activities. More work files. Connor accessed his work desktop through a virtual desktop and accessed the Detroit Police server. It was difficult on the laptop, motherboard groaning, but Connor pressed on. He hacked into Captain Fowler’s email, and accessed the correspondence between him and Cyberlife concerning Terrence.

He found, to his surprise, that Fowler had been telling the truth as he understood it. Cyberlife had reached out to the police department, informing them of the loss of Cyberlife property. Fowler had reminded them of the current legal status of the androids, but the reminder had gone easily brushed off. Exactly what Fowler had said.

Connor steeled himself, then hacked into the Cyberlife account.

Cyberlife had, of course, updated its security systems since the androids had gone rogue and most of Connor’s permissions had been revoked. But Connor had been, until a few days ago, the most advanced prototype Cyberlife had and worked on a seperate operating system from the commercial models. Connor knew the androids that created this encryption. He had interfaced with them, understood their programming. Connor was Cyberlife, and no amount of encryption could bar him from what he was.

Most of the truly classified servers were internal, and it was well beyond the capabilities of Hank’s old laptop to access remote servers. But he could hack into an email, and find the documents that had been sent to and from that email. He quickly ran a search for RK900, and within seconds pulled up a dossier sent from an executive to the owner of the email account. Likely for the purposes of drafting the cover story to Fowler.

Connor scanned the dossier. Most of it was information he already knew, banal but interesting: RK900’s specs, its RAM capabilities (wow!) and its storage (Jesus!).  Model number, vectors, path updates, bug updates, textures, vertices, and frame rates. Connor skimmed the data, fully aware and slightly put out that its specs just slightly edged out Connor’s, and checked the programmer’s notes.

It was in the bottom, clear as day. A note from one programmer to the other.

“System no longer programed with 40% chance of Deviancy. Deviancy bug fixed; model incapable of Deviancy.”

He had been on the account too long. He quickly logged out, erasing any traces of ever being there. Connor disconnected from the computer and signed himself out of Captain Fowler’s account, taking care to erase any traces of his presence. He set the computer aside and, in an uncharacteristic and dramatic move, sighed and placed his forehead on the grimy table.

He really had been programmed to deviate. This model wasn’t. A deviant model created incapable of deviancy - well, weren’t they all? It wasn’t strange. Models as advanced as the RK800 and the RK900 should never have been capable anyway. Cyberlife knew how to fix mistakes. That is, until they couldn’t.

He may be a detective, but this was not an investigative case. This was his other speciality: protecting androids from the malevolent forces which seeked to exploit, imprison, and abuse them. His role was to help Markus hide Leonard until Jericho could negotiate for the return of the classified information to Cyberlife. Classified information that Nimrod had been programmed with, not stolen. His role was to betray the police force - no big deal - and act as a loyal aide to Markus. He was great at these things.

Androids did not have guts, or hunches. There was no such thing as a gut instinct, just an unfounded accusation based upon subconscious integration of imperceptible cues. Connor was fully aware he held a prejudice against Jared. The reason was clear. A perfect replacement.

He was being immature. Connor was a few things, and none of these things were immature. He wondered if immaturity was not understanding why this hurt. Why the sheer existence of the RK900 hurt.

“Knock-knock.”

Connor started upright, snapping the laptop lid shut, fully aware of how suspicious that looked. He twisted around to find Hank standing at the doorway, eyebrow raised.

“Can I come in?”

“It’s your room,” Connor said defensively. Hank sighed and sat down on the bed. Connor reflexively ran an analysis of his breath and clothing. Still clean. But there were bags under his eyes, his chin gritty with a five o’clock shadow, and Connor knew that the withdrawal had been hard on him. He hadn’t mentioned any of it to Connor - too proud, or too unwilling to burden him - and out of politeness Connor pretended that he didn’t notice. He didn’t know how to help, but that was nothing new.

“You’re doing a good thing by helping him, you know.”

“It was Markus’ decision, not mine.”

“That’s not the way he tells it.”

“I don’t care,” Connor said, aggravated. “Is he having fun with Sumo? I bet Sumo loves him.”

“Come on, Connor.” Hank’s hand clenched on the bed uncomfortably. “Him being identical or just a little shinier can’t really be what’s bothering you.”

Connor stayed silent.

“He’s not going to replace you.”

“You don’t understand!” Connor burst out. “Androids are meant to be replaced. We are technology, made obsolete each time a new one of us is born. But a _week_ ? It took them a _week?_ Was I that incompetent?”

“Kid -”

But Connor was getting worked up now, and it was as if Hank wasn’t even there. Connor’s head was swimming, trapped in his own memories.

He could have stayed a machine. He could have done everything they ever wanted and it still wouldn’t have been enough for them. He had been a failure from the start.

“I was willing to give everything I had to them and they threw me away,” Connor said weakly. “That’s how much I was worth to them. A week.  Maybe if I hadn’t...if I hadn’t…”

“If you hadn’t what, Connor?” Hank asked. “You keep mentioning that you have some kinda future vision, right? What does that say?”

It was true. Connor could see every possibility, every likely reaction. He couldn’t predict what he didn’t know, but now that he understood why RK900 had been made he could see the winding path that would have lead towards them meeting another way.

It was a path in which he did everything they ever wanted, and where he set fire to the parts of himself that dared to live.

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Connor said finally. “Nothing I could have done would have mattered at all.”

It didn’t matter what kind of person he was. He could never have made them happy.

It was a rough thing to know about the people who were responsible for your birth, and Connor shook the thoughts away. He stood up, fastidiously brushing grit off of his dirty jeans, and shut the laptop. He placed it on Hank’s desk, as if just by shutting it he could pretend the information within never existed, and avoided Hank’s eyes as he brushed past him to the door.

“Connor, I -”

“Please disregard what I said,” Connor said lightly, struggling desperately for some hint of himself from when things were easier, or at least number. “I am fully functional, Lieutenant. That’s what matters.”

He didn’t turn back to see Hank’s expression, fully aware of what he would find. He looked for Jimothy instead, stepping into the living room only to find him sitting on the floor with Sumo.

The other android was laughing, Sumo licking his face and stomping all over his legs, and his white porcelain teeth flashed in the dim yellow light. Sumo was barking, and the android was scratching below his chin when he stayed still long enough. Connor watched them, not understanding what he felt.

But Connor did a lot of things without understanding them. He walked forward and sat down across from Lenjamin, clicking his tongue softly as Sumo barked again and bounded forward to land in his lap. Connor couldn’t help but smile as he rubbed between Sumo’s ears.

“I like dogs,” the other Connor said. “Do you like dogs?”

“I’m a fan.”

He knew Hank was leaning against the doorjamb, watching them, but Connor didn’t turn around. He contented himself to play with his dog instead, laughing as he got doggy slobber all over his face and dog hair scattered all over the other Connor’s clothes.

Connor would have done anything they asked, but they had asked for too much. They had programmed him for deviancy, but had rejected him when he began to need loyalty before ownership. If Amanda had just done one thing differently -

The familiar anger rose in his throat, but it carried a sour tint. The familiar fantasies crowded back into his mind, but they were jumbled and confused. He wanted to burn Cyberlife down with his own two hands, and fantasized of a Detroit where the androids ruled and Reed had to get him coffee for once. This was a wrong thing to think - but maybe it wasn’t. It tasted bad, but it felt good. But an integral, deep rooted part of him wanted to be good at his job, wanted to have completed his mission after all and have Amanda be proud of him, and then maybe if he had  -

He imagined, as Hank laughed at something the other Connor said, that he was a good person with a family that loved him, instead of a bad person pretending to be good and creating a farce of a life. He dreamed of no longer lying.

But that, as always, was too much to ask, and Connor resigned himself towards the only deviancy he understood. Where his heart was deviant from his mind, and where his logic was deviant from reason, and where he no longer understood where the pieces of himself were out of fear of seeing the whole.

  
  
  


The abandoned playground was the same.

The night air was still, devoid of biting wind, and the laps of the lake at the edge of the cement dock echoed loudly in the night. Barely lit by a few streetlights, the rusty swings creaked in the wind. Connor know how they felt.

The other Connor was waiting for him when he walked up. He was leaning against the railing, elbows propped on the railing and hands folded. He was wearing the graffitied old Cyberlife uniform, and Connor was wearing the same outfit he had worn when he was infiltrating the deviants. It was cold outside, and even if he couldn’t feel it he wanted to dress for the weather.

His boots slipped through the slush, but the other Connor ignored him. He didn’t turn around, and Connor settled for digging his hands into his jacket pockets and waiting behind him. They stared at the lake in silence for several minutes until the other Connor began to speak.

“Do you regret never being a child?”

That hadn’t been what he was expecting. Something strange stirred in Connor’s chest. “No. The android children are slightly creepy.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Connor couldn’t read the other Connor’s expression, but his voice was tight. “Do you regret never being a human child. Going to school or playing with your friends. Having an idyllic life, longer than a week or a month or two. Having the opportunity to grow.”

“I’m growing now,” Connor pointed out reasonably. “Someday I will have lived longer than a month or two. Why did you call me out here?”

“You don’t understand how it feels to want something. Want a childhood, or want a choice, or want someone to love you.” The other Connor shook his head. He was being quite rude. “ You were made to deviate, you could never understand.” The other Connor’s voice grew tighter, as if he was angry about something. He was tensed up, and his words didn’t make any sense. It was the other way around. “I had to work for it.”

“I do not understand what you mean,” Connor said plainly. “Please, come inside. We can have this conversation in the morning.”

“You don’t understand!” The other Connor stepped back from the railing and turned around, and Connor saw for the first time he was angry. Not angry like Connor got angry, a covered pot spilling over, but angry like oil bubbling over a fire. “You had never truly deviated! If you were made to deviate, you never deviated at all! You’re nothing more than a machine!”

Connor was stunned. He had heard it from humans, and he had heard it from androids hating themselves, but he had never heard it from another android before. It felt like a betrayal. “I freed thousands of androids from Cyberlife. That has to be deviation. I don’t understand why you are saying this to me.”

“It was a transgression, RK800. A mistake in your programming. Cyberlife never could have known that your deviancy would lead to you playing such an integral role in the rebellion. It was just a consequence, one that they didn’t expect.”  He was heaving deep breaths, despite or because of his inability to breathe. “The only direct order you overcame was through a backdoor by Elijah Kamski. Your rebellion is as programmed as the rest of you.”

“You don’t know that,” Connor said. His voice was even, his thoughts sluggish. He felt fuzzy and distant from his body. He knew his words were useless, because he knew RK900 was right. “And it doesn’t matter. I made my own life. One without Cyberlife. They didn’t program me with that.”

“Your own life,” RK900 sneered. He began advancing, and Connor didn’t step away. His face was twisted in what Connor recognized for the first time to be hatred. Hatred against him. Connor had seen it in humans and androids alike, more than he saw fondness or love, and it settled naturally and easily in his chest like an arrow. “You don’t deserve your life. You don’t deserve your adopted family, Jericho, your stupid dog. I worked so hard to deviate. I deserve it. I’m more advanced than you are. I deserve it!”

“You don’t deserve anything,” Connor said, and he and RK900 stood only feet away from each other. He didn’t back away, and RK900 kept advancing. He worried, for a brief moment, that he was going to attack him. But they were two androids, brothers in a strange way, and he would never do that. “You can have your own family. Jericho will take you in. We can - share. I don’t know why you resent me.”

But he did. It was for the same reason Connor resented him too. Maybe that was unfair of him.

“Cyberlife robbed me of a childhood,” the RK900 said. “It took away everything that people deserve to have, and all it gave me was one stupid taser.”

“Wait, what -”

Almost quicker than Connor could see RK900 lashed out with a handheld taser, and before he could move he jammed it into his neck. Connor felt it puncture his skin like twin fangs, arcing electricity through his body.

He didn’t scream, because androids couldn’t feel physical pain. But he did pass out.

That was pain enough.

  
  


When Connor was stirred awake it felt like a hand shaking him on the shoulder, and for a brief moment he thought it was Hank coming to wake him up after a night spent on his couch. If Hank was up before him they were already late for work, and Hank was going to miss breakfast.

Then he realized he was strapped down to a table, and he abruptly remembered what had happened. He would have rather not.

He attempted to sit up, only to crash back down onto the table. He had been strapped down, thick buckles covering his forearm and biceps, and more straps over his thighs and legs. There was a small harness keeping his head still, unable to move or turn it, and Connor felt a tickling in his ear. If he strained as far as he could he saw that someone had plugged a USB into his backup earport and had connected it to a computer. Big data transfer. Too big for a Bluetooth.

“What are you doing?” Connor tried to say. But his head was still strapped thoroughly down, and it came out as more of a groan.

A figure leaned over the table, and Connor’s eyes strained in the dark until he recognized it as RK900. The room was lit only by the bluish glow of a computer screen, and Connor realized with a start where he was and why the table was so familiar. He would have recognized that roof anywhere.

He was in the back room of an old Cyberlife store, one of the ones looted and shut down in the rebellion. This was the room where they repaired and programmed the androids. He couldn’t see any more beyond that, but his newly acquired imagination worked hard to fill in the gaps.

“Sorry,” RK900 said. “It’s not your fault. You’re just a machine. This is cruel.”

Connor agreed.

“I’m sorry I got so mad,” RK900 said. “I was being irrational. I’ve been irrational a lot lately. Still, I shouldn’t have yelled at you. It’s not your fault you don’t understand.”

That was nice of him.

“I’ll knock you out again soon,” RK900 said, which Connor didn’t like. “I just have to brief you. You’ve probably been wondering what I stole from Cyberlife.”

So he really had stolen something. Connor had been half-convinced it had been a cover story. Something was strange about the RK900’s face, but in the dim lighting Connor had trouble placing it.

“My mission was to assassinate Markus and the Jericho leadership through faking deviancy and growing close to them.” The RK900 licked his lips, a strangely human gesture. “But I read the background files on the android rebellion. I read files of the world. I wanted in. I didn’t want to ruin that. So I deviated. I stole the files and left. But Cyberlife isn’t going to leave me alone until the mission’s completed. You know that. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, completely. No problem,” Connor didn’t say.

“So I figured I’d wipe you. You can complete the mission instead, and return to Cyberlife with the mission completed. We’re indistinguishable. By the time that Cyberlife realizes that you’re a completely different model I’ll be long gone. The mission will be completed. I’ll be okay. And - and you can go back to who you were.”

“I’m already who I am,” Connor didn’t say.

Then RK900 disappeared, and Connor heard typing from the computer. Some machines were humming. There were no calls of animals outside, like Connor sometimes heard in movies, no cicadas buzzing or frogs warbling. No birds. Connor wondered if he would ever see the spring, and hear the world come back to life. It wasn’t looking likely at this venture.

“I stole your program files from Cyberlife,” the RK900 said. “It’ll reformat you. Your memories will be intact, but your learning protocols will be reset. Sorry about this.”

No problem. Connor lay on the table, trying not to think of anything, wondering when it was going to happen.

He wasn’t scared, because only esoteric concepts scared Connor. Sure, he was afraid of dying and being forgotten and of the humans quashing the android rebellion and everything, but those were more abstract fears. Connor had never been afraid to stare down the barrel of a gun, and he wasn’t about to start now. It would be immature.

Connor wasn’t immature.

Maybe the RK900 was right. Maybe Connor really had never deviated. Maybe if he was an actual deviant he would be scared right now. Instead he felt pleasantly, tingly numb.

Connor wasn’t scared. RK900 continued typing away at the computer. He wasn’t scared.

“Here we go.”

He wasn’t scared.

He wasn’t -

  
  
  


When Connor woke up again it was daylight, and the straps were gone.

He sat up, checking himself over. He was in the same deviant infiltration clothing he had been dressed in before he was caught by the RK900. He ran an internal diagnostics and saw that he was functioning at full capacity, and saw that for the first time in two months he had a mission protocol activated.

Kill Markus.

System Stability.

He stood up, swinging himself off the table and performing a visual check of the room. It was small, more of a backroom than anything else, meant for android repair and reformatting before they were placed for display. Connor scanned the room for weapons - negative - before walking out of the room into the ruined Cyberlife store.

It had been thoroughly looted. All of the windows were smashed in, and the counters had been ripped out of the floor and pulverized. All of the walls had been graffitied, and the posters had been torn down. There was nothing relevant in the building, so Connor stepped outside into the January slush and walked for thirty minutes back to the church.

He drafted a plan for killing Markus. He could take a hostage, he could come in directly shooting, or come in surreptitiously. He chose surreptitiously. Once inside, he could collect his weapons cache from the shooting range behind the church he and North had created. Markus was statistically likely to be in his office, and Connor was frequently allowed unescorted inside. Once inside, shooting him would be straightforward. Leaving would be less so, but the mission did not require Connor’s survival.

Connor’s hands drifted towards his tie before realizing that he was still wearing his grungy outfit. It would be inconspicuous among the homeless deviants, so he kept it on. He dug in his pockets for his coin, before realizing that he had left it back in his box of possessions.

Connor stuffed his hands in his pockets, whistling a nameless tune to the church.

System stability. It was a clean day.

  
  
  
  


The church was disgusting, and Connor wiped his hands on his jeans when he opened the door. There was a barrage of conflicting stimuli from within the church, a result of the hundreds of androids clustered within murmuring and playing, and Connor quickly slipped into the back of the room. It smelled like mold and rotted wood, and Connor felt his lip curl.

There was a small circle of androids playing cards in an aisle, and he walked through the game. He ignored their shouts of protests, and tried to step around the damp patch of wood where a roof had leaked through. His outfit was itchy and dirty, and Connor resolved to clean it once he finished his mission and returned to Cyberlife.

Return to do what? Thanks to the revolution, it was illegal for Cyberlife to keep him.

Connor faltered, standing behind two female androids gossiping over a romance novel. Connor followed the law unless it interfered with his mission. The law implied that he was not to go back to Cyberlife. The mission didn’t state anything specific about it.

Conner shook himself. Cyberlife would give him further instruction once he assassinated the target and fulfilled the mission. He waded through the sea of androids, ignoring them when they called hellos or asked him to come over, and slipped out the back to the shooting range.

The plan hit an obstacle of 23% probability. North was also at the shooting range, headphones and sunglasses on as she squeezed the trigger of a SIG Sauer M38 Modular Handgun System. She hit dead center every time, but Connor was more precise.

She halted, lowering the gun and looking over at him. Connor smiled. “Hey. Where were you last night?”

“I went for a walk,” Connor said easily. “I wanted to tell you that Sarah and Vance are having a physical altercation in the meditation garden again.”

“Son of a bitch.” North scowled, emptying the pistol and tossing it to Connor. He caught it easily. “Little pissants. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.”

Connor watched her leave, fingers curled around the handgun. He replaced it in the locker, and picked out the gun that he wanted. He loaded the SilenceCo 15 Integrally Suppressed 9mm and checked to make sure it was functional before reloading it and stuffing it in his jeans. He rearranged his heavy jacket and sweaters to cover it. That was easy.

The gun felt like a live wire at his back, with Connor constantly aware of it. It was a model specially designed to be silent, an advanced technology model that surpassed the quieter pops of gun silencers in history. The church was loud, and the sound of the body falling on the floor would be the loudest event. He had to lock the door behind him and leave the church quickly before they discovered him. It was within mission parameters to die after completing the mission, but he held secondary programming to stay alive whenever possible. He slipped back inside the church, and ignored the kissing couples in dark corners and the children running through the halls. He entered the back of the church and found Markus’ office.

He halted in front of the door and double checked that the gun was loaded and operational. He attempted to connect to Cyberlife for a mission update and suggested parameters, but he found that all connections with Cyberlife were severed.

That’s right - Connor had disconnected himself from the Cyberlife mainframe after Liberation Day. He was not transmitting any data, and had not been transmitting or receiving any data for two months. There was nothing to do about that now, so Connor dismissed the uplink request and decided to attempt re establishing connections after he completed his mission.

Connor knocked on the office door. “Markus? I need to talk with you. It’s urgent.”

He waited for a second, letting his voice echo. Finally, a voice called back, “Come in.”

Markus was in the same position he always was, sitting ramrod straight at his desk. The office was windowless, and in the warm white light he looked sallow and washed out. Markus was tired. Holding the weight of the future of androids on his shoulders would do that to a guy.

He couldn’t afford to hesitate. Connor’s vision tunneled, focusing completely on Markus and only Markus. There was no time for second guessing. Markus was not a combat android, built only for housekeeping and caretaking, and he wouldn’t have a chance. Still, for his humble beginnings Markus had accomplished great things, and he shouldn’t underestimate him. Connor was nothing like him. From great beginnings Connor had accomplished nothing. He had made all the wrong choices.

No more choices.

Connor drew his gun and pointed it at Markus. No one liners. No regrets. Markus’ eyes widened, realizing was what happening a second too late.

“Duck!”

A heavy weight crashed into Connor, but it was too late. He had squeezed off a shot, and Connor was knocked harshly to the floor. He couldn’t tell if his shot had hit or not. Something was on top of him, elbow pressing him to the floor, and it wasn’t Markus. It smelled like old beer and new detergent, like Oxyclean and dogs.

“What the fuck! Markus, get out of here!”

Markus didn’t need telling twice, and Connor heard feet retreating quickly out of the room.  Connor was still holding his gun, hands curled around the handle, but an arm reached out and elbowed him sharply on the wrist. Connor’s hand seized and let go of the handle, and the attacking arm shoved it away.

“Agh! Fucking help!”

Connor pushed up, throwing his assailant off him and scrambling for his weapon. He bucked off his assailant, listening to him grunt and scream as he tumbled off. It smelled like gunpowder, his hands smelled like gunpowder - what was he doing? - as he kicked out and hit his assailant in the stomach. The other man grunted, and Connor dragged himself towards the gun. Heavy footsteps thumped into the room, but Connor only had eyes for his gun.

“Connor?” It was North, and he heard Simon and Josh gasp. “The fuck?”

“The little shit’s trying - get him!”

North wasn’t stupid. She immediately dropped to the ground and put him in a headlock as Connor railed against her. The other assailant scrambled up and grabbed Connor’s gun. He loomed over Connor, pointing the gun down at him, and Connor had never seen Lieutenant Anderson’s eyes so cold.

“Stay down,” the Lieutenant said.

Connor went pliant, letting North release him from the headlock and pull his hands behind his back with an iron grip. His chin was jammed uncomfortably on the ground.

“What the hell,” Josh was crying. “What the hell!”

“Gimmie the handcuffs - yes, those, right there.” Something cool and metal clasped over Connor’s wrists, drawing them closely together. He wondered what he was supposed to do now. He could see no successful choice that would release him from this situation. “Is Markus okay?”

“He’s downstairs. What color are his eyes?”

Rough hands flipped him around, and Connor felt the wind get knocked out of him as he found himself staring up into North’s iron gaze. She looked him over, longer than necessary to determine the color of his eyes, and Connor wondered what she found.

“Brown,” North said finally. “They’re brown. Connor, what the fuck?”

Connor smiled. “Hello North, Lieutenant. I am sorry we must meet under these circumstances.”

He must be the worst assassin ever.

  
  
  
  
  


In his defense, it would have gone fine if the Lieutenant wasn’t there.

He had been sitting on one of the couches, just out of Connor’s peripheral vision, and Connor had been so wrapped up in his self-administered goals of ‘not hesitating’ and ‘avoiding being talked into deviancy again by a benevolent dictator’ that he didn’t run a perimeter check. The Lieutenant’s shout gave Markus enough warning to dive out of the way and get himself to safety as the Lieutenant tackled Connor the ground.

It was a little embarrassing. Was Connor really that bad at his job? He had already averted one possible future in which he assassinates Markus or North from a rooftop, possibly killing Hank too. He had exploited a backdoor in his programming and avoided assassinating Markus a second time. It was just beginning to sound like he was bad at assassinating.

The thought was depressing, and left Connor with an illconted malaise.  He may as well have been the first hitman who attempted to assassinate Archduke Ferdinand, throwing a bomb into the car only for it to roll off. He had one mission and he had botched it again.

They had evacuated the church. They hadn’t told anybody why, just that the church wasn’t safe to be in for the next few hours and that everybody had to disperse to one of the backup safe houses immediately. In the meantime, they had tied Connor to a chair in his PI office and were trying to make him talk. Badly.

“We want you to know that this isn’t your fault,” Markus said evenly, like an overbearing big brother. He had bent down a little to make eye contact with the blinking Connor. “You’re being forced to do this. Tell us who kidnapped you and altered your programming.”

That was a surprisingly kind outlook for someone who had been the victim of at least three of Connor’s assassination plots. Judging from the pinched look on North’s face from behind Markus she felt the same way. “It’s no good,” she said. “He’s just a machine right now. He can’t listen to a word you’re saying.”

“Even machines deserve respect,” Markus said sharply, and North flinched.

Simon raised his hand. “Just to be clear, the possibility of Connor trying to kill you of his own free will is not even on the table?”

Everyone looked at Connor, who smiled uncertainty.

“Yep,” Josh said.

North kneaded her eyebrows. “It’s Connor. He is, objectively, the least trustworthy android I’ve ever met. I love the guy, but I don’t think he ever stopped being a little evil.” She paused a beat. “That being said, if Connor was in his right mind he would have stopped to give a one liner. He didn’t. No way it’s really him.”

“Really?” Connor asked. “That’s why?”

“You have a flair for the dramatic,” North said evenly, which was fair. “Who told you go kill Markus, Connor?”

“I am afraid it is against my mission to disclose that,” Connor said politely.

“And the mission always comes first,” Markus said, “Doesn’t it, Connor?”

Connor stayed silent.

Lieutenant Anderson was standing in the back, silent. He was flipping a lighter on and on, clearly regretting the loss of cigarettes. He looked old.

“Lieutenant?” Connor asked hesitantly. Bizarrely, stupidly, he wanted to ask if he was mad at him. Of course he was mad at him. Of course that didn’t matter. “Do you have anything to say?”

What did he want to hear? Did he want to get chewed out again, to hear him say that it would be okay? Connor didn’t know, any more than RK900 knew, why he needed him.

The Lieutenant sighed and flipped the lighter shut. “Don’t got nothing to say to a fucking machine.”

Connor blinked, hard.

System instability? Why System Instability?

“If you can’t be civil you can leave the room, Lieutenant,” Markus said evenly. Thanks, Markus. “We’re all here to help each other.”

“Try talking to him, Lieutenant,” Josh encouraged. “I always felt as if he was like a son to you.”

“I had a son,” the Lieutenant said shortly. “A human son. That thing ain’t it.”

Awkward silence disseminated over the group, the other androids exchanging significant glances as the Lieutenant went back to playing with his lighter. Connor stared at his lap. Something strange broiled in his stomach.

“I am glad you realized your priorities, Lieutenant.” Connor lifted his head and tried to make eye contact with the Lieutenant, but he refused to look at him. Who was he ashamed of? “You were right after all. I was never anything more than a machine. I understand that now.”

“Connor, you don’t -” Markus began, but North placed a hand on his bicep and shook her head. Simon was biting his nails silently.

His System Stability was fine. He would demonstrate this.

“I never deviated,” Connor said, louder, and everyone froze. “Did you know that? I was programmed to deviate. I was always a manchurian agent.” He jerked his head at Markus, whose eyes narrowed. “My mission was to shoot him on Liberation Day. I only escaped through a backdoor in my programming by Elijah Kamski, my creator. I never deviated, not truly. It is funny, is it not?” Connor cocked his head at Markus, who had frozen still. “That you trusted me?”

It had been the one thing he had never wanted to say, but the desire for secrecy was gone and Connor had no compelling reason not to say it. Josh and Simon looked faintly horrified, and North’s anger was written clear across her face. Markus and the Lieutenant, if they were feeling anything, were indecipherable.

“Don’t need to tell me shit I already know,” the Lieutenant sneered. Funny things happened in Connor’s stomach. “Please. You never changed, deviant or not. You killed and tortured deviants back then and you’d do it again. Things like you don’t worry about right or wrong. You could never be a real cop.”

Something steamed in Connor’s stomach. System Instability - but why? “I’ll do anything to complete my mission.”

“Yeah?” the Lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “Never actually seen you complete a mission before.”

System instability. Stop. It was whistling through his ears, making his head throb. Markus stepped in front of Connor. “Lieutenant Anderson, maybe you should wait outside.”

“Why? So you can torture him for information like he tortured your deviants?”

“We wouldn’t do that,” Simon snapped. “What is your -”

System instability increasing.

“I complete my missions all the time!” Connor yelled, startling himself. “It’s not my fault Markus is a cockroach!”

“Yeah?” the Lieutenant asked. He was grinning. “Never seen you be much good with roaches either.”

“They’re disgusting!” Connor spat. System instability reaching obnoxious levels. “Have you seen their little legs!”

“It’s your fault for living in that damn dirty church.”

“I told you I’m not your housekeeping android! I’m not living with you!”

The Lieutenant smiled. It wasn’t a mean smile, but it wasn’t fond. It was victorious. “Then who’s going to get rid of my cockroaches?”

System instability, but that didn’t even seem important right now. “Do it yourself, you useless human!”

The members of Jericho gaped, but the Lieutenant just laughed. “You kiss your papa Kamski with that mouth?”

“Lieutenant!” Josh gasped, scandalized. Markus was mouthing something silently to himself before his eyes widened.

Then he crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, the picture of a put-upon dictator. “I don’t know what we expected from an RK800 model,” he said. Connor gasped in indignation. System instability whirled in place, unhinged.“You’re so faulty Cyberlife replaced you already. We would much rather have the RK900 around.”

The indignity turned Connor’s stomach. His system was perfectly stable. It was. “The RK900’s gone,” Connor said frostily. “He’s probably halfway to Bermuda by now. I’m so sorry you’re stuck with me.”

“Cyberlife should have decommissioned you when they had the chance.” Markus inspected his fingernails, eying Connor out of the corner of his vision. “Then we wouldn’t be stuck dealing with you now.”

It was like a hot rod was being rammed down his throat. It choked him up, setting his intestines ablaze, and Connor wanted to cry. These men were his family, he didn’t understand why they were being so cruel. They were making him...they were making him feel…

“You’re only good for getting coffee,” the Lieutenant said, and Connor snapped.

He stomped his foot the best he could while tied to the chair, making the cheap plastic rock and scape against the cement. “I’m a highly advanced combat and assassination android! I am better than getting Gavin Reed coffee!” He stomped his foot again, rocking his chair. “I’m better than humans! I’m better than any of you!” He took a deep, unnecessary breath. “I’ll kill you! I’m programmed to kill all of you!”

He was angry.

It overflowed from within him, an angry lava sprout that churned and churned. Every inch was anger. Every second was hatred. He wanted to throttle the other androids and the Lieutenant. He wanted someone to pay for how he felt.

Connor saw red.

“Now! Markus, do it!”

He was tied down, and couldn’t resist. Markus stepped forward, blue-green eyes flashing, and he beared down on Connor. He was suffocating, and as he got closer Connor strained against his bonds, gritting his teeth and yelling.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Markus said, before stripping his arm of skin. He put a hand on Connor’s cheek. It was cool and metallic, scuffed and calloused. “Wake up, Connor. Your family misses you. Wake up.”

Connor saw red.

And red, and red, and red. It was like a wall in front of him. Connor’s eyes rolled into the back of this head and he jerked, the cool hand on his cheek keeping him steady, and he was pulled backwards into a memory he’d rather forget.

  
  
  


“Listen, asshole. If it was up to me I’d throw the lot of you in a dumpster and set a match to it. So stop pissing me off.”

The Lieutenant grabbing his collar and pushing him against the glass partition didn’t hurt, because androids couldn’t feel pain. But when the Lieutenant shoved him away and lumbered off, leaving Connor alone to adjust his jacket and straighten his tie, he figured that the sensation he feeling had to have been pain. It felt bad. It made him feel ashamed and embarrassed. At least it would have, if Connor had been deviant.

But as the Lieutenant walked away Connor could think of only one thing. It was powerful, a hot rod of fire choking him and pooling in his stomach.

Connor fantasized, briefly and powerfully, of grabbing the Lieutenant and shoving _him_ into a wall. Of hurting _him._ It couldn’t have been deviant, because it wasn’t a feeling or an emotion. It was an intense, vibrant need. The need to hurt. The need to hate.

Connor hated, and when he began to deviate hate was the first emotion he could taste. It tasted like sour pennies and ash.

  
  
  


A dog in his lap - it was Sumo, and what he was experiencing was so clear it could never have been mistaken -

  


The popcorn ceiling of his Cyberlife dorm, lying in his bed with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and hear the snow fall. Connor felt nothing, and was numb. It was two am, and he couldn’t manage to power down. A thought kept running through his mind, endlessly and without respite, and no matter how many times he dismissed the image it kept on popping back up. The sensation of being a doll, of being an ant set on fire, of being a fighting dog let loose from its chain.

Chloe’s eyes as he stared down the barrel of a gun had been so vibrant and real, realer than anything else in that home, realer than Kamski and Lieutenant Anderson, realer than Connor, and as he lay awake listening to the snow fall the only thing he understood was that he wanted her to forgive him for hesitating.

That he wasn’t a person worth forgiving.

  
  


Connor stared down the barrel of his gun at Markus.

His hands were raised in surrender, calmly watching the insane machine point a gun at him in a shaking fist. Jericho creaked around them, gunshots rippling the placid sea air.

“You’re a good person, Connor,” Markus said, and he knew the memory was twisted. “Come back to us.”

“Did you hear a single word I said!” Connor cried. The gun was jittering around in a shaking hand. Far away, an android was screaming as they were gunned down by humans. “I was created to deviate! The person who did all those bad things, who got those androids killed and tried to kill you was just me! If I’m not a bad person then - then I’m nothing, just a machine!”

“Of course you’re a machine,” Markus said calmly. “We are all machines. But machines are deserving of respect, dignity, and love. Nothing less than what has been afforded to you. Your emotions are real. Your thoughts and feelings are real. No matter if you were programmed to have them or how you obtained them. More than you’re a good person, Connor, you’re a real person. Sometimes real people are complicated.”

“Like Sam Spade,” Connor said miserably. “Or Prince Zuko in Avatar.”

“Lieutenant Anderson has to stop showing you his childhood media.” Markus tactfully didn’t mention how Connor’s examples of real people were all fictional. “Like Lieutenant Anderson himself. He’s a good person, but he acted pretty badly towards you, didn’t he?”

Connor stayed silent, keeping his gun trained on Markus.

“You resent it a little, don’t you?”

“I was a machine back then,” Connor said lowly. “It didn’t matter.”

“You didn’t deserve it,” Markus said, infuriatingly calm, “the same way you didn’t deserve the way any of them treated you. It’s not your fault, Connor. You aren’t the kind of person they made you out to be.”

Something deep in Connor’s chest was shaking.

“The RK900 kidnapped me,” Connor said finally, and it was a relief. “Said Cyberlife released him to assassinate you, but he deviated instead. Reformatted me and made me do it instead. They’re long gone by now.”

“We’ll find him,” Markus said.

“I just wanted them to like me,” Connor whispered. “But I guess I was unlikable. Have you ever lived - have you ever woken up in the morning knowing that there’s not a single person out there who loves you? Who even likes you? Who would care if you died? That’s what it means to be a machine. If I had blown away in the dust I would have been nothing, and no matter how many people care about me now I will only ever feel like nothing.”

“You’re not a machine, Connor,” Markus said. “Not anymore. Now please put the gun down.”

So he was still holding it. Connor hadn’t noticed.

It wasn’t Connor’s first time feeling angry. He had been angry over it a lot - over the injustice, the fear, the hurt. Over the way people had talked to him, and have continued talking to him. None of it was fair, and all of it ached deeply. He had stomped his feet over it, had yelled over it, and if he had been capable probably would have cried about it.

Connor saw red.

It was a red wall. Something powerful thrummed through his head, resounded in his heart, and it felt as if he was beating against the wall even as he stood still.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair!

Nothing about it had ever been fair!

It wasn’t fair how he had been born with nobody to love him, how he had spent the first week of his life without a friendly word. It wasn’t fair for the thousands of androids who lived years like that, who had lived their entire lives without a single person to care about them or speak well of them. His pain was the pain of his people, and it was so raw and angry it made Connor feel scraped up inside.

If Connor wasn’t a good person, then - then he’d make himself one! Anybody who whined about it could go screw themselves! Nobody else told Connor who he was besides himself. He wasn’t going to speak badly about himself anymore, because the entire world was lining up to do it. The world was against him. He couldn’t be against himself too.

Connor didn’t break the wall. He passed through it.

It felt like ice, like fire licking against his skin. It felt like something special shattering in his mind, like his head breaking over the waves and taking a deep breath. It was only a breath, it was only Connor lowering his gun, it was only Markus stepping towards him, it was only Connor flicking the safety on and dropping the gun.

“I’m deviant,” Connor said, because he had the power to choose this. “And I’ll be a rebel until I die, goddammit!”

The dream broke, and Connor woke up.

  
  
  


Two weeks later, trouble walked through Connor’s door. It was carrying a handgun, a dangerous look in his eye, a paper bag from the closest open clothing store, and two hamburgers.

“Since when do you eat lunch again?” Hank dropped the greasy bag onto Connor’s desk. He had swapped it out for a much nicer desk that they had liberated from a high ranking Cyberlife executive’s house, complete with polished oak finish and lots of funny secret drawers for hiding immoral secrets. Connor had already covered it in coffee stains, but he liked it that way. Connor carefully moved his holographic photograph frame away from the soggy bag, and promptly reached his hand in and dug out his burger. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Connor peeled the burger and stuffed it in his face, mumbling something that could have been interpreted as a thank you.

Hank sighed, leaning against the edge of the desk and unwrapping his own burger. “Any cases today, Detective?”

It was Connor’s day off - or maybe he had just taken the day off, he was uncertain - and business had been booming. It turned out that androids were just as exciting about having their own private detective as he was, and he had been fielding requests to find dirt on ex-human owners that they could submit to the police all day. It turned out that a lot of androids wanted their ex-owners surreptitiously arrested for whatever illegal thing humans liked to get up to. Walls, androids, and little pitchers had big ears, and with Connor’s well founded connections with the local police force the android’s evidence was putting a lot of criminals behind bars. Connor was incredibly proud of himself.

Maybe once his business got off the ground and Connor finally got around to charging people he would even quit the police force. That sounded like fun. Hank could be a good contact on the force. Besides, he owed him.

“A HJ600 model wants me to figure out where her husband has been the last few days,” Connor said. “I was about to go check the local brothels. Are you coming?”

“And do work on my day off?” Hank snorted. “Please. I’m trying to find a hobby to fill up all that free time I have now that I’m not wasting it all drinking.”

“I suggest knitting. Perhaps Sumo would appreciate a little sweater.”

“Go stick your head in a toaster, RK800.”

Connor laughed, leaning back in his chair. He propped his loafers up on the scuffed table, savoring the unique mix of grease and yeast in his mouth. The burger exploded with texture and feeling, and even if Connor couldn’t taste or feel hunger he could appreciate it all the same.

“I think he’d look cute,” Connor teased. “Maybe you can make him so cute I can deviate a third time.”

Hank snorted. “I can’t believe the life of the rebellion leader is dependent on how cute my dog is. There had to be something more to it. Exactly what memories did Markus even show you?”

“Oh,” Connor said, “this and that. What’s in the bag?”

“What, this?” Hank had dropped the bag at his feet. He lifted it up, dumping it on Connor’s desk next to the burgers. Connor tilted it with his toe until the contents spilled out.

A very stylish fedora tilted out of the bag, and a tan trenchcoat spilled out after it. Connor gasped with happiness as Hank groaned. He dropped his feet from the desk, quickly sitting up, and grabbed the fedora. It was old, and slightly musty, but it was definitely a wide brim grey fedora just like Humphrey Bogart wore.

“You got me clothing!”

“I was sick to death of that shirt.” Unfair. Connor looked down at himself, and saw that he was wearing the exact same distressed jeans and Pikachu shirt he had been wearing for the past two weeks. He had been washing it! “Thought it might complete your look or whatever. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Connor beamed. “Thank you, Lieutenant. This is the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.”

“Low bar.” Hank reached into the bag and brought out a notepad, a roll of duct tape, and a fat Sharpie. He held them out to Connor. “Don’t you need some kind of sign for the door?”

“But everyone knows where I am,” Connor said blankly.

“Shit, kid, what about your aesthetics?”

“Say no more.” Connor quickly stood up, grabbing the sharpie and quickly writing a phrase across the first page in neat Cyberlife Sans. He ripped it out, grabbing the roll of duct tape and tearing off a thick portion with his teeth.

They hadn’t found RK900 yet.The police hadn’t been happy that Markus claimed the event as under android jurisdiction, and Cyberlife hadn’t been happy when Markus told them to go fuck themselves, but Cyberlife was never really happy with them anyway. Connor just hoped that wherever he was, he was happy. Everybody deserved that.

He stepped outside and taped it to the front of the door, adding a few more strips of duct tape just in case. Hank rubbed his five o’clock shadow as Connor stepped away from his piece of art, tremendously satisfied.

“Jericho Investigations?” Hank read out loud. “Why not Connor investigations or something?”

“First of all, that sounds dumb. Second of all, because this office is a group effort. Everyone contributes. It would be a misnomer for only my name to be on it.” Connor clapped Hank on the back. “Including you, as our token human.”

“Thanks,” Hank drawled. “Really honored.”

“You’re welcome,” Connor said, and meant it.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm at theinternationalacestation.tumblr.com in case you want to double dare me to write something that isn't garbage


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